


The Winter Cafe

by You_Light_The_Sky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Identity Issues, M/M, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Avengers, Seriously I love Skinny!Steve, Superheroes still exist, Violence, Winter Soldier x Skinny Steve, coffee shop AU, skinnywinter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skinny Steve Rogers’ life changes when he takes in a beaten up man from the streets… a man who may or may not be a killer of some sort. Steve needs to rethink his life choices. </p><p>Or that Coffee Shop AU where Skinny Steve takes in the Winter Soldier as his new barista without knowing said-Soldier is an assassin in the first place.</p><p>For Atisenia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Cafe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atisenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/gifts).



> This is a very late Birthday present to the amazing Atisenia. It's still a work in progress... I feel like every time I try to write a fic for her, it turns into a WIP. I'm sorry! Happy birthday, I love you!
> 
> Chapter numbers could change but tentatively 5 chapters for now? I hope? Please muses?
> 
> Warnings: probably ooc characters. I'm sorry Bucky. Sorry Steve.

The target ( _Natalia Romanova, alias Black Widow, avenger, SHIELD agent, enemy, mission_ ) is in sight of his scope. It’s almost too easy. Her in civilian clothes outside a Brooklyn café. As absentminded as the rest of the world. Weak. Defenseless.

 _I thought better of you,_ the thought comes unbidden and the soldier dismisses it. He does not have other thoughts. Other emotions. He has a mission and he completes it and this gives him purpose.

She is speaking with the other target ( _Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, avenger, SHIELD agent, enemy, mission_ ) and he will have less than a second to eliminate them both. Assassinate the assassins. ‘Send the avengers a message,’ the white coats said.

The Soldier waits. His thumb drumming along the side of the roof. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to eliminate both targets at once and there it is… they are leaning to each other, just asking for the quick (boring) kill and the soldier tenses his trigger finger—

The café doors open and the two targets step apart to let a skinny boy with glasses bring them two cups of coffee and that boy looks at them with a sheepish smile and the soldier stares and he—he—

The rifle clatters down to the cement.

-

For the fifth time this month, Steve is thrown into a dumpster. The smell of garbage doesn’t bother him anymore, he only feels sorry for the people who’ll have to smell him (and put up with him) later today. Their day will be wrecked by the filthy stench of the stupid kid who wouldn’t back down. He coughs, wiping a banana peel and wrappers off his hair before he looks up at the men who were harassing a lady in the alley.

They’re turning away from him, going back towards her (that poor woman, stepping away all too slowly, too terrified and worried to move.)

“Hey, is that all you got?!” Steve shouts hoarsely, struggling with his arms to step out of the dumpster. A voice in his head berates him for being a moron (but that’s ok, you took all the stupid with you, didn’t ya?) before Steve spits at them. “I can do this all day!”

They turn right around, faces red with rage and when Steve sees the back of the woman’s hair as she escapes into the streets, he thinks, _this is okay then._

The next set of punches knocks him out cold.

-

Sam is glaring at him, arms crossed, when Steve wakes. Slowly, Steve blinks up at him, trying to determine whether this is a dream or not. But the rooms are never this white in his dreams (and he hates white, hates hospitals, hates the beep-beep of their machines and their needles and he always grins and bears it but he hates it—) and Sam’s displeased face always makes his stomach drop in guilt.

Sam hands Steve his glasses and then that frown is clear in HD let-me-make-you-guilty vision.

“…Am I in trouble?” he croaks.

For a moment, Sam doesn’t say anything which is bad because Sam is probably one of the most patient people he knows and if it’s taking Sam this long to talk than Sam is pissed. Steve hates it when Sam’s pissed. He’s only ever wanted to make his friends happy and to keep his screw-ups from interfering with their lives (… _all you do is take up space…!_ )

“’ _Am I in trouble’_ he says,” Sam mutters before throwing up his hands. “Yes! Yes, you are! What happened? Who’d you seek out this time—?”

“I don’t seek out anyone—”

“You _never_ do! But somehow they find you anyways—”

“There was a girl in trouble—”

“There’s _always_ someone in trouble! Why can’t you call for help like a normal person? Or call the police?”

“They wouldn’t have come in time. I had to do something,” Steve tries to explain like he always does.

Sam sighs and sits back down in his seat. “Steve, you’re not a hero. You’re gonna get yourself killed. Hell, I’ve got no idea how you survived before I met you!”

“…Luck mostly,” Steve replies. And _him._ Always _him._ But Steve doesn’t talk about _him._ Not with anyone.

“You’re gonna turn me grey before I turn thirty-five! Christ and I thought the army was stressful…”

Steve’s heart clenches. “Sorry Sam.”

His friend’s eyes soften. “No you’re not. But it’s fine. Let’s get you outta here. Doc says as long as you’re careful, you can be released… despite my good advice, I might add.”

Steve beams. “You’re the best!”

Sam rolls his eyes, “I’ll be checking up on you and bringing your medication. You better take it two times a day, no skipping, or I’ll write up the paperwork to take you back in here.”

“Never mind. I take it back,” Steve laughs in between his coughs. “You are a terrible nurse.” They both know that Steve hates painkillers, would rather ride out the pain than numb it.

“And don’t you forget it,” Sam quips back.

-

Steve sort of bonded with Sam when they met at the hospital—or Sam actually imprinted on Steve after seeing him so many times (often bloodied, beaten, coughing hysterically or unconscious) at the clinic. Sam has this motherhen tendency, though to be fair, so does Steve. Sam’s caretaker instincts just tend to skyrocket around Steve’s fragile health.

It’s not as though Steve went out of his way to make friends with an ex-army medic (now nurse). He’s not very good at making friends, to be honest, not since… Well, he’s just not good with people after spending so much of his life either (a) locked up in his apartment, sick as hell, (b) sketching until he’s exhausted, (c) beaten black and blue or (d) in the hospital. He’s been homeschooled and working with his mum in her café which he took over after she died. Now he’s trying to keep business open while moonlighting as an artist and social-justice blogger. Something like that. (He’s not very good at that either. Romanoff says he needs to stop giving away food to the hungry and just sell it but he’s kind of a sucker. It’s fine.)

Anyways, people find him nice enough. For all he tries to be. His ma raised him right. But he’s never been good at connecting with them long-term. Too much social contact and he takes refuge with his sketches and…with… (well, that’s not possible anymore, is it?)

But Sam is a genuinely nice person. Sam just… cares and it’s hard to be socially awkward with the guy when Sam seems to genuinely like the stupid things Steve says from the top of his head and that Steve is a scatterbrain save for when you mention baseball or art.

So Sam and Steve hang out and Sam’s almost like his best friend. They go jogging (just light jogging so Steve’s heart doesn’t give out) and Sam likes to let Steve borrow his records of jazz, R&B and hip hop while Steve insists that swing music and classical are still cool tunes to run to. (Steve may also have a guilty pleasure for Korean boy bands and ballads but they are some awesome beats.) Sam drags Steve to see sci-fi movies (“If I didn’t take you out, you’d never see the light of day”) and he always stops by the café for some coffee and pie.

“Don’t you have anyone to call?” Sam asked once, after seeing Steve for the twelfth time in the clinic.

“No one left really,” Steve says. He doesn’t want to burden any of his friends either.

“…Okay,” Sam nods. “Well, if you don’t mind, how about me?”

So Steve sort of really loves Sam. Sam is like the older brother he never had, always looking out for him just like… just like… He’s just a good guy. Not many people would take to a skinny asthmatic kid like him.

-

For three days, Steve lies in bed, ignoring the need for pain killers. Sam checks in to remind Steve to eat and to make him some soup. He shakes his head when he sees Steve hasn’t touched the medicine and just covers Steve up in more blankets so they can watch more Star Trek together. Steve does some abstract sketches of black and whites, different colours that attempt to be shapes but merely are. When he can finally get up by himself to use his crutches, he goes to the café and opens it up.

His regulars, a surly and slightly terrifying group, are waiting impatiently.

“You!” Stark points at him. “Where have you been?! It’s been two weeks! _Two weeks_ without your coffee! I had to go to _Starbucks_ , Rogers—not that I mind them—but yours is just better—”

“I’m sorry?” Steve blinks at them, fumbling with his keys.

Romanoff only stares at him blankly. “There was no coffee,” she says in a deadpan, which manages to sound more ominous that any threat Steve has ever head… and he’s heard some twisted ones.

“Don’t mind her,” says a voice from above them. “She’s impossible when she doesn’t get her daily dose of caffeine.”

“ _This_ coming from someone who jumps into _high places_ when he’s tired or cranky?” Romanoff practically hisses.

And yes, Barton really is sitting on the balcony above the café doors again. Steve just doesn’t even ask anymore.

“God just shut up so Rogers can open the damn doors and get us all our motherfucking coffee!” Fury says while Steve shakes his head as Banner holds the door open for him.

“What happened there?” Banner asks quietly, tilting his head towards Steve’s cast.

Steve shrugs, almost at the counter. “I fell,” which is technically true. He fell into a dumpster. Many times. And against the ground too. They’re very well acquainted, him and the ground.

For a moment, he thinks Banner’s eyes flicker green but he pushes the thought away. Just a trick of light. Steve’s weird way of seeing the world. Nothing.

“So will it be your usuals?” Steve grins at them.

“You sure you don’t need help?” Banner presses.

“Nah, I got this.”

His regulars are an odd bunch but they’re loyal customers, and even if Steve feels guilty about it sometimes, they still come to his café when he’s sick. They show up until Steve comes back and act as if nothing has changed.

“You should really have more people to help you,” Banner suggests as he does every morning when he sees Steve struggling with some heavy bags of flour. His voice has an edge to it, probably because Steve is trying to navigate around the kettles with his crutches.

“When I can afford it,” Steve laughs, getting his mugs out. They’re all individually painted, little gifts for his batch of customers. Different designs of whatever comes to him.

“You gotta let me advertise for you, man,” Stark chimes in, drumming his fingers on the counter. The others look ready to kill him for that annoying sound. “I’d even build you an AI to take orders, free of charge.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Steve says, partially because he still can’t believe there are actual AIs out there and partially because the café was his mom’s pride and joy. He doesn’t feel right putting an AI within the building walls, taking over what little of her presence is left.

He’s pouring out their orders when Thor bursts through the doors, shouting, “Good day to you friends!”

“Oh my god, it’s too early for this and I don’t even have coffee yet,” Barton grumbles from his seat on the table. Even when inside, he likes to be perched up high.

Fury and Romanoff stand by him, arms crossed as they glare at everything in sight.

“Steven!” Thor almost tramples over Stark in his rush to the register. “What happened to you?! Do we need to grant you justice?!”

His regulars tense and Steve suddenly feels as if he’s been trapped in a den of lions.

“Do we need to beat someone up for blocking our caffeine fixes? Because we can,” Stark drawls easily (though his eyes are all too serious and that is the frightening part.)

Steve shakes his head in fierce protest. “No! No, not at all. I took care of it.” Sort of. He can handle his own battles.

“You’re a shit liar,” Romanoff speaks up, “but the offer still stands.”

“Somehow that doesn’t comfort me,” Steve remarks, giving out their beverages.

“Yes it does,” Romanoff shoots back with one of those small genuine smiles of hers and Steve can’t even protest.

There’s nothing quite like seeing the pleased faces of his customers as they down his coffee. For a moment, he can pretend everything is alright.

(Even if it’s not.)

-

His specialty has always been coffee. Maybe it’s from making tea for his Ma and for… for _him._ Steve picked up some of his Ma’s baking when he wasn’t stuck in bed but he’s never had a feel for it like she did. He can only make his Ma’s apple pie.

Most people come to the café for his coffee and the monthly murals that he does on the glass. There are few customers who were loyal to Ma and still think Steve is the most ‘adorable little thing’ and that he needs to eat more. But Steve’s just happy he has his own regulars that he gained by his own merit. Even if they’re a terrifying bunch.

It started with Romanoff and Barton. He saw them by their car (which looked wrecked) soaked in the rain so he offered them some free coffee, a place to dry off and a phone call. Moments later, the wet and scaring looking two were sipping his coffee in appreciation. They even got their boss Fury to try a cup when he came to get them and the car.

“You… are an angel,” Barton had crowed at Steve, his features melting from hardened stone to boyish grins and Steve had blushed while Romanoff muttered appreciatively in Russian.

Ever since, they’ve stopped by together in the mornings when they can and even in the evenings. There are times where Steve won’t see them for weeks but Barton has assured him that it’s part of their jobs. “We won’t cheat on you with another coffee shop, you’re the only one for us!” Barton had joked, waggling his eyebrows up and down. Romanoff only shakes her head and tells Steve she’ll bring him back a kiddie souvenir to which he groans.

(She really has brought him souvenirs. Like bobble-head bulls from Madrid as a joke and little thoughtful things like a mini-replica of Monet’s paintings. Steve has them displayed proudly on his bookshelf.)

He hardly sees Romanoff or Barton without the other.

Fury is less predictable, popping in and out at random times, never consistent with when he comes. Or even _where_.

Honestly, once, Steve was about to close up and was struggling with some boxes in the back when a voice demanded a black coffee and blueberry scone from behind him and Steve tried to punch the fella from behind… But he was restrained by Fury. To this day, Steve has no idea how Fury got in without Steve noticing and every time he asks, Fury just gives him this mysterious stare and pats Steve on the head with a chuckle. That man is a troll, Steve can feel it.

Meeting Stark was… different.

Steve had seen photos of the billionaire on the covers of tabloids in newsstands and _he_ had always ranted and joked about the exploits of the rich with half contempt and half delight. Steve never really believed much about newspapers without a lot of evidence and avoided celebrity gossip in general. But with an eidetic memory, he couldn’t miss Stark’s face, especially when that very man shoved through the doors of the café, all burnt and covered in oil, to slap a few wrinkled twenties on the counter.

“Coffee,” Stark had said while Steve wondered vaguely if it was _the_ Tony Stark or if he was hallucinating again. “Lots of it.”

“Okay, sir,” Steve had said, without missing a beat. “What size?”

“I dunno! Your biggest. Hurry up!”

Steve, used to grouchy customers, just summoned up his mother’s old words of ‘bear it and smile’ and did exactly that. But silently, he had hoped that Stark would get an attitude adjustment. Preferably soon. Stark was busy complaining loudly about the state of the chairs (“Too small and stiff!”) and the murals on the walls (“What is this, a kindergarten?”) and the service (“Fucking four-eyed brat! You should consider yourself lucky I’m even here when I could be at Dunking Donuts!”)

“Well,” Steve had said with a smile, never one to listen to people talk about the competition or disgrace his mother’s café, “if you’re so upset, you can go find coffee elsewhere next time.”

“Maybe I will,” Stark had snapped back, taking the coffee with him. He left without taking his change (which made Steve feel a bit guilty after, he didn’t want a tip if the guy didn’t mean to leave it.)

The next morning, Steve had the money in an envelope, planning to mail it back to Stark (if he could find the address… When Steve thought about it, someone like Stark probably got a lot of angry anonymous mail he didn’t even open.)

Unexpectedly, Stark burst through the doors, a gleam in his eyes which Steve learned to be wary of.

“You!” Stark had pointed at him, “Are some kind of… of… coffee god!”

Steve had stared.

The finger had stayed pointed at his nose.

Outside, he had heard a dog bark. How pleasant.

“Here, take my money, I need to see if it wasn’t a weird one time experience!”

“Um…”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Stark had demanded.

“A ‘please’ might be nice,” Steve had said without thinking. You damn punk, _he_ would have said if _he_ were here, why you gotta go egg ‘em on?

He had tensed, waiting for retaliation, the scorn, but Stark had surprised him by bursting out laughing and clapping Steve way too hard on the back. “I like you, kid, I like you.”

And that was that.

Stark would come in at odd hours in the night or morning with some outrageous coffee orders (“You can’t have twenty cups, Stark, you’ll die of caffeine overdose!” “Haven’t yet!”) and Steve would roll his eyes. Sarcastic replies would just slip out but Stark would only laugh with delight. No one ever takes Steve’s comments seriously but for some reason, with Stark, he doesn’t mind it too much.

He worries about the baggy eyes Stark has (the man is like fungus; he grows on you) and starts throwing in free food. Not really free, with the huge tips that Stark gives him carelessly. Steve has tried to return the cash but Stark insists that Steve go buy himself a pony. So Steve just gives the money to the homeless shelters instead and starts a little Tony-Stark-food-tab for when Steve needs to slide Stark sandwiches and wraps.

Sometimes Stark’s overworked PA comes in to drag Stark to a meeting (Steve gives her mochas from Stark’s money, on the house) or an exasperated Colonel Rhodes will (Steve gives him warm apple cider.) They’re cordial people who seem like they need the caffeine and sugar as much as Stark does.

Then there’s Thor, who literally crashes through the glass murals of the café because of some drunken fight.

Steve had been pretty annoyed at the time and yelled at all those involved to take their bullshit elsewhere. They’d all laughed at him, some of the biggest looking Norwegian bikers he’d ever seen and would probably have beaten Steve up on the spot if not for the sound of police sirens in the distance. The bikers fled and Steve had huffed, turning back towards the muscular blond fella who suddenly engulfed Steve in a bone-crushing hug.

“My thanks to you, little warrior!” Thor had boomed (Thor, Steve learned, thought they all lived in a Monty Python movie, with the Holy Grail.) “I commend you for your bravery and I swear I will repay you for the damages to your charming establishment.”

“Right,” Steve had wheezed. “Can you… let… go… now…?”

Thor had been so sincerely apologetic about bruising him that Steve forgave him instantly.

Instead, Steve bandaged Thor’s cuts and gave him a free cup which Thor had dropped after his first dip, crying out, “This drink! I like it! Another!” and Steve had to grab the mop so no one would slip on spilt coffee. Thor, ever the gentleman, had insisted on cleaning it himself, leaving Steve with a smile.

Sometimes Thor would drag in his brother Loki, who sneered at the café. Steve got the impression that Loki wasn’t fond of people in general but he was never too rude to Steve (at least not directly) when Steve smiled and took his order. Loki even came in the middle of the night from time to time for tea and quiet. Steve didn’t bother Loki and Loki was polite (meaning he ignored Steve beyond a tight ‘thank you’.)

Despite Stark’s complaints about Loki’s creepiness and his threats to Loki not to ‘mess’ with Steve, Steve liked him. Steve felt that Loki was often the butt of many of his strange regulars’ jokes and kind of felt bad for him.

Finally, there was Banner.

Steve had seen him from time to time, helping at charities. He’d even seen one of the angry episodes Banner had on the street (like he was a completely different person, whose eyes always seemed to glow green to Steve, except that was crazy.) But Steve never really talked to Banner until one early morning, before opening, when Steve was painting his monthly mural on the windows.

His mural that August was a bright sunrise of orange hues. He’d been adding his finishing touches, some dashes of yellow and pink for the sky when he turned and nearly fell off his ladder at the sight of the man staring up at him.

“Whoa there!” Doctor Banner had caught him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve had waved him off, rushing to his feet. He had probably stumbled over his feet or something because Doctor Banner had looked at him as if he was a hurt kitten. “I’m fine. Really.”

“I’m sorry, I was just admiring your work…” Banner had said sincerely.

“Oh, do you paint?” Steve asked eagerly.

“No, I’m a scientist. Doctor of gamma ray studies.”

“Wow that sounds amazing!”

“That I’m a doctor or that I have an artistic side?”

“Is ‘both’ a good answer?”

Banner grinned then. “Why not?”

“Next time, just holler if you’re here. I don’t mind. People are supposed to look at the murals.”

“Okay. I might take you up on that,” Banner shook his hand after they discussed their favourite artists.

Banner comes back every month, always wearing that slightly mystified look when Steve says he’s happy to see him. Eventually, Steve starts bringing Banner ice tea and some of the crepes. Banner has a huge sweet tooth and, to Steve’s surprise, hits it off with Tony Stark over science.

Then it turns out Romanoff and Barton have done ‘work’ for Stark before but were never fond of him until now and Barton’s met Thor even if Thor doesn’t exactly recognize him in return. And Fury, well, Fury knows _everything_ so Steve doesn’t want to know he fits in to all this. But suddenly Steve has a regular crowd of customers. He thinks Ma would have been proud and only wishes _he_ were here too…

Despite being friendly with his regulars, Steve still feels the odd one out sometimes. Awkward. Alone. He can’t stop seeing _his_ face in everyone he meets. If not for Sam and PI Carter, Steve doesn’t know how he’d get through his days.

He ignores the cocky voice echoing in his ears, insisting that he would have anyways.

-

So Steve sort of struggles through his day on his broken leg. Sometimes, drifting off in thoughts best not pursued, of _what if_ and _if only_ before Steve stops himself and bakes more cookies. He goes on until noon, when Sam storms in and groans, “Steve, please go home and take a break” and its Sam’s pleading eyes that convince Steve to let Sam drive him home.

“I was fine,” Steve insists.

Sam rolls his eyes and ruffles Steve’s hair in the exact same way _he_ would have.

“Sure thing, Steve.”

-

He stares at his easel. Red lines and splatters, drops of crimson and that face, _his_ face everywhere and Steve curls back up against the bed.

His pillow is wet in the morning.

-

When Steve limps into work a few weeks later (it had taken longer for recovery, Sam claimed, because Steve was too stubborn to lie still in bed but Steve _can’t_ lie still or he’ll paint red and that _face_ and he… he can’t—) he notices an ad in the paper for missing persons. He freezes when he sees familiar sneering faces and neck tattoos. The men who put him in the hospital with a broken leg. Steve had thought he’d been lucky to get out alive.

It’s surreal, seeing their faces there, but they must have family or friends looking for them and Steve hopes, at least, that they aren’t dead. A small part of him thinks maybe karma is striking back at these men for harassing people down the street and Steve feels a bit ashamed for it.

Who is he to choose who gets punished in the long run? As long as they aren’t dead, he’ll rest easier.

-

Business is slow. Steve doesn’t see any of his regulars and this leads him back into unwanted head space. He cleans the entire café at least three times before he thinks he should just close up. He doesn’t worry (at least, he tries not to.) Sometimes is group of regulars disappear for days or weeks at a time and then show up so injured that Steve nearly has a heart attack. Sometimes they don’t appear until midnight, banging on his apartment door, telling him to open the café up.

He tries not to think that maybe they’ve decided that his café is a waste of time. If _he_ were here, _he’d_ throw Steve over his shoulder until Steve laughed and shouted, “Okay, I surrender! I am worth the space!” and _he’d_ reply, “Damn right, punk.”

Normally Steve would stick to work but having a limp and sleepless nights lately are taking their toll. Steve just wants to lie down and, for once, he indulges himself.

“Probably should hire a part timer,” Steve berates himself. “Still waiting for the right person though. But maybe it’s time to settle…”

Maybe it’s time to settle in all aspects of his life.

He remembers what Sam asked, a few days ago. “I know you’re grieving for someone, Steve, but maybe it’s time to let him go.”

The problem is that Steve wants it, any form of _him_ , even if it’s just his ghost. Better than nothing.

“Would he want to see you like this?” Sam would press.

And Steve would reply, “No, not at all” and feel like a complete selfish jerk.

“I’m trying,” he says to himself and he is, with the café and Sam honestly helps too. The other day, Steve just started tearing up when he caught a glimpse of an old Scooby do episode and Sam just held Steve and didn’t even care that Steve got his shirt wet.

If Steve could fall for anyone after _him_ , it’d probably be with Sam, in that moment. But his heart doesn’t listen to healthy logic so Steve just takes comfort in having the best friend a guy could have. Sam suggested that Steve try doing something for himself and Steve reflects, as he hangs up his apron, that closing early probably counts.

It’s getting dark as Steve leaves the café, autumn bringing colder weather in the late months and, admittedly, Steve didn’t close _that_ early. Baby steps, right? He walks through the alleys (“I’m not patrolling, Sam, honest! Just… taking… the scenic route.” By now, Steve has no idea how Sam deals with Steve’s bullshit. Probably the grace of angels) looking out for any trouble.

Thugs tend to miss little guys like him if they’re targeting someone else, in which case, Steve usually steps in. Tonight, he doesn’t see anything suspicious. He gives out what change he can to the people huddled in corners and is about to reach his apartment when he slips on a wet trail by the stop sign around the corner.

Steve falls with his hands forward, wincing fat the scraps on his knees and hoping he didn’t just break his leg again.

When he lifts his hands back up, he realizes that the wetness is still warm and its dark red… just not Steve’s red…

He jolts up in panic, looking back and forth.

“Hello?” Steve shouts, “Is someone hurt? Are you alright?”

He fumbles around for his cell as his eyes follow the dark red trail to a shape slumped over against the brick wall. Steve breaks off into a limping run. He shouts, “Hey, are you alright?” and is about to put a hand on the shape when it moves with a male groan.

Blue eyes droopily blink at him and Steve sees a pale thin man with long oily hair, a man dressed in a strange black armored suit. Steve feels his breath leave him when he looks at the man’s dead eyes. He’s never seen anyone look so… devoid of anything and it isn’t until he sees something flicker in those eyes when the man finally glances at Steve that Steve sees the blood running down the man’s arm.

“Oh my god, it’s going to be alright, I’m phoning an ambulance,” Steve babbles, keeping a hand on the man’s arm. Pressure. Keep applying pressure!

“No,” the man nearly shouts, his voice hoarse. Suddenly Steve’s wrists is squeezed and Steve nearly yelps out but the intensity in the man’s face stops him.

“Hey,” Steve finds himself saying gently, “Hey, I need to call for help. You’re hurt. You need medical attention.”

“No,” the man shakes his head again, never taking his eyes off of Steve. “No hospitals. Off the grid.”

“But your arm—”

“Heals fast,” the man says again and when he rolls up his sleeve, Steve doesn’t see a cut, why is there no cut—

“Then… the police…”

“No!” the man snarls, “No police. No hospitals.”

“But—”

“They’re looking for me,” the man admits and Steve doesn’t like how vulnerable the man looks then.

“I… alright. Just, come to my place,” Steve says, even while his common sense screams ‘no, Steve, no!’ “I’ll patch you up and you can stay until this blows over.”

The man just stares up at Steve in complete confusion, vulnerability still etched in the lines of his face.

“Why?”

Steve stares down at his hands, the sticky crimson clinging to his fingers.

“…I don’t like blood.”

The man seems to bark, as if he’s forgotten what a laugh sounds like. “What are you?”

“Friendly neighbourhood artist?” the man stares, “I’m Steve.” The man keeps staring. “Uh, what’s your name?” the man frowns and Steve babbles, “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“…You may call me Yasha.”

-

Yasha’s hands are cold, like pressing against the cold surface of the tundra. By the time Steve is at the door, he’s fumbling with his keys and his fingers have lost all sensation. Yasha puts an arm around Steve to steady him, even though Steve is sure Yasha must be exhausted.

Yet every time Steve attempts to move away, Yasha scowls and tightens his hold so Steve likes to think maybe they’re holding each other up.

As soon as they enter Steve’s living room, Steve gently directs Yasha to the couch, then rushes to his overstocked medicine cabinet for the first aid kit. Steve silently thanks Sam for refilling it and then goes to wash Yasha wounds.

Yasha is staring at Steve’s walls and cabinets in a bewildered sort of silence that makes Steve want to fidget.

“Here,” Steve says, bringing up bandages and a bowl of water. “This might sting,” he warns before he begins wiping Yasha’s arm with a wet cloth. He sees that Yasha is tense until a few moments pass and Yasha seems to relax under Steve’s careful cleaning. It should be awkward but somehow… Steve doesn’t feel it.

He keeps glancing up at Yasha, who has his eyes closed and for some reason that makes Steve breathe a little easier.

“May I?” Steve asks, and indicates to Yasha’s face. Yasha only stares before nodding and closes his eyes again.

Steve gently wipes Yasha’s forehead and then his cheeks, before he begins wrapping Yasha’s arm up in bandages (even if there is no cut, it would make Steve feel better.) It’s not until Steve looks up to hand Yasha one of Sam’s shirts that he realizes that Yasha has been looking at him the whole time.

“Um, so I have clothes for you to change in. And… uh, I guess you can use the guest room. You probably want to sleep,” Steve babbles, since the bedroom is more like an art room that Steve happens to sleep in. The guest room used to be Steve’s when his Ma was still alive. Now its Sam’s whenever he comes over.

Yasha jumps up when he hears the word. “Sleep?!” he snarls.

Steve gulps, “Uh, yeah. In a bed. Down the hall. Or even on the couch if you want, it’s just not very comfortable. I have a lot of blankets you can use though! I’ll be down the hall if you need any more. I have the heat up so you don’t have to worry. I think. I don’t really like the cold. But I could put it down if you want…?”

Yasha’s shoulders lose that tense quality. “Yes. Of course.”

Steve’s not sure what Yasha is saying ‘yes’ to exactly but he’s glad that Yasha doesn’t look like he’ll stab the next thing that moves.

“I have some soup I could heat up too, if you’re hungry?”

“Yes,” Yasha says again.

-

Steve tries not to fidget as he heats up the beef and broccoli stew in his kitchen. He can feel Yasha staring at his back as Steve spoons out two bowls with a ladle. Steve turns to lift the bowls to the table and is surprised to see Yasha take them both from his hands and place them down for Steve.

“Location satisfactory?”

“Um. Yeah. Thank you.”

Yasha just stands there.

“…You can sit down. That one’s for you,” Steve tries for a smile, “You can eat as much as you like.”

Yasha nods and does exactly so, giving soft murmurs of appreciation as he spoons each mouthful. Steve doesn’t eat much, too nervous and watching in awe as Yasha eats the whole potful of stew.

“I have cookies, too, if you want,” Steve offers.

Yasha hesitates. “You… did not eat?”

“Just full. I thought I’d be up for stew but I guess I’m still full from work,” Steve says. Well. He had an apple.

And Yasha only stares more. This time, a glint of something dangerous there.

“…But I could eat some cookies too?” Steve nods quickly.

Yasha nods.

They eat in that same awkward way, with Steve wondering if he should ask Yasha what he’s running from. He consults his inner Sam Wilson but even imaginary Sam has no idea what to do in this situation. This is more Steve’s brand of crazy, imaginary Sam insists, which usually means that Steve is being really stupid and should get out of this mess _now_.

“Thank you,” Yasha’s voice brings Steve back from his head.

“Oh, um,” Steve looks at the maybe-killer’s oddly expressive eyes. “Any time.”

-

Yasha sits on the couch.

“You can take the guest bedroom, if you want,” Steve offers.

But Yasha shakes his head, sitting rigidly on the couch.

“Oh. Right. Well, here are some blankets,” Steve says, wondering if he should lock his own bedroom door.

“Who is this?” Yasha points at a picture frame where Steve and another boy are young and carefree and beaming like the world is made of light.

Steve swallows painfully. “Oh. That’s me and… Bucky.”

“…Who is Bucky?” Yasha glares at the photo.

Steve closes his eyes.

“My… my best friend.”

“Does he live here?”

Steve blinks. “No, no… he… he’s gone now.”

This time, Yasha scowls, “Where did he go?”

“…Afghanistan.”

“And he left you alone?”

“He—no!” Steve snaps, “He’s dead. He’s not coming back. He didn’t _leave_.” Not by choice.

Yasha’s mouth opens and Steve shakes his head.

“Sorry, I just can’t talk about it. Good night.” Steve puts the blankets in Yasha’s hands.

He rushes back up to his room to avoid seeing a pale face dressed in red. He doesn’t care how it appears anymore. Yasha will be gone in the morning anyways. He’ll forget about a random stranger’s tears.

-

But when Steve steps out of his room the next morning, Yasha is huddled by his door, sitting in such a way that he could spring out on any intruders. His eyes are closed but they fling open as soon as Steve turns the door knob.

“Um… good morning?” Steve says, not knowing what to expect.

Yasha nods.

Steve looks down at his socks. Right, so Yasha hasn’t left yet. What to do… what to do… (Sam is going to be so pissed at him.)

“…Do you want breakfast?”

Yasha nods and follows Steve to the kitchen.

He’ll just have to make this up as he goes along then. Hopefully Yasha won't decide to just stab Steve later on during his stay.

-

Interlude: The Soldier and the Photo

-

The Soldier stares hard at the photo of this _Bucky_. Feels the urge to smash the glass and take Steve far away, some place even Hydra and SHIELD cannot see them. Instead of letting himself linger on the image of Bucky (weak name) the Soldier looks to the younger Steve. The smile that the Soldier has not seen. But wants. Oh, he _wants_.

Such a foreign thing for him when the sensation first appeared two months ago but he keeps it. Hoards it to himself. It’s _his_. The only thing that has ever been his.

 _I knew him_ , the Soldier thinks, and then, _I know him **now**_ **.**

His parameters tell him to go back to his handlers and the white coats, that he’s been compromised. But what will happen to Steve if he reports him? (And oh, they _will_ make him report.)

Will they eliminate Steve for weakening the Soldier? ( _No—never—not Stevie—no!_ ) Will they bring Steve in if he can prove of use? ( _He sees the filth throw the skinny boy into the dumpster and his fingers pull the trigger as soon as he finds them alone—_ )

Steve is something that only the Soldier knows (and he does, he knows Steve better than… than…) and he won’t allow anyone to take him.

“He is _my_ friend now,” the Soldier says to the photo, to Bucky, to Hydra, SHIELD.

Then he leans forward, watching his reflection, before he takes out a small screw driver and takes off a tiny bud stuck behind his ear. As soon as the metal chip falls off, the face of Yasha seems to sizzle away with blue light and the tired, worn face of Bucky Barnes stares back.

“I won’t be you,” the Soldier says to the reflection. “He needs something better than you.”

( _You will be the ultimate soldier. You will make us triumph_!)

He fixes up the settings on the disguise chip before he places it back behind his ear. The face of the man on the street, of Yasha, sizzles back in place after a grid of blue lights dies down.

“I won’t leave him,” he vows to the mirror.

Then he goes to sleep by Steve’s door.


End file.
